


Higher Than The Average

by Naemi



Category: NCIS
Genre: Animal Attack, Animal Harm, Gen, Gory Descriptions, Hurt/Comfort (concepts), M/M, Prompt Fic, Suspense, Violence, Zombification, the animal is okay in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You got a damned zombie dog in there, McGee. That's serious business indeed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Higher Than The Average

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentflux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentflux/gifts).



> [set around season 5]

 

 _All right. This is fucked up._ Tilting his head to the side, Tony cocked one eyebrow. Maybe if he changed the angle, the picture would change, too.

“No.”

“No what?” Tim shifted his weight. 

“It doesn't change.”

“Huh?”

Tony shook his head slowly. “It keeps being—well, what exactly is it, McGee?”

“You're pretty slow for a 'Very Special Agent.'”

“Excuse me, but even a Very Special Agent needs time to adjust to the sight of a four-legged, furry . . . what _can_ I call it?”

“Jethro. Still.”

“Don't let Bossman hear this.”

Grimacing, Tim closed the door, shutting out the sight of the Thing Formerly Known As Dog. With the aid of some Xanax-spiced ground meat (the pills were courtesy to his last girlfriend), Jethro had passed out, and Tim had been able to chain him to the bedpost without being torn into tiny pieces of geekflesh. Tony showed up uninvited, bringing pizza and a determination for “buddying up some more.” Tim had rarely been happier to see him.

And Tony had rarely been more confused by anything Probie, although his name was synonymous with bewilderment in the DiNozzo dictionary.

“Maybe I should call Jimmy,” Tim said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Palmer? Why, what's he got to do with it?”

“He's fit with dogs.”

“That sounds pretty dirty.”

“Can you for once take something seriously? Just this once, please?”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Fine. You got a damned zombie dog in there, McGee.”

“Thanks, I noticed.”

“That's serious business indeed.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tim flopped onto the couch, hunching his shoulders, looking so _adorably_ lost that Tony couldn't help but sit down next to him to pat his knee.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

Tim fiddled with the cap of a beer bottle. “I don't know.”

“Think harder.”

“Really, I have no clue. He was perfectly fine this morning. Damn it, he was perfectly fine all day. Until I went grocery shopping, and bam.” Tim's voice was tense. He sunk lower into the cushions, as if trying to melt right into them. “I can think of nothing that might have, you know . . . zombified him.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Oh. O-kay.” Tony took a bottle of his own, copied Tim's fidgeting, then set it back down. When a low whimper from the bedroom broke into the silence, Tony glanced up in time to catch his friend flinching.

“I don't know what to do,” Tim said miserably.

“You're a Fed. Use your damned gun.”

“I can't.”

“You shot him once, you may as well shoot him twice.”

Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and thus forcing Tony to withdraw the hand he hadn't realized sneaking back there.

“I can't. Not if he can be saved.”

“Um, yeah. In case you don't know, there's no cure for zombification. Other than . . .” Tony made a throat-cutting gesture, but stopped in the movement when he noticed the glisten in Tim's eyes. Not good, uh-no. “Hey, come on,” he said stupidly, lacking words. His heart raced with the effort to remember how to comfort a friend. Images of fingertips on cheeks flashed through his mind, and since that was definitely not work-buddy-safe, he blinked the idea away.

“Hey,” he repeated mindless, meaningless.

“I know.”

“Know what?”

“I should man up and do what's got to be done. But I can't.”

“I wasn't gonna—”

“He's a friend,” Tim continued stubbornly. “Dog and bad start and all, yeah. Doesn't change a thing.”

“Can't shoot a friend.”

“No.”

“He isn't exactly my friend, though,” Tony said, wanting to smack himself in the face halfway through his words. If there was a chance of making anything worse, his stupid mouth was sure not to miss it. “I mean,” he tried again, “you don't have to do it. Just—you know. Just saying.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. I really do.” A spark of gratefulness lit up Tim's eyes, extinct again with another distorted sound from next door.

“You think Jimmy's also fit with zombies?” he asked dryly.

“I'm trying hard not say anything inappropriate right now.”

“It wants out so badly, doesn't it?”

Tony grinned, rolling his eyes. “You wanted serious me, you get it. Thus, a serious thought: If we can find out what turned Jethro into rotting flesh—sorry—we might also find a cure.”

“That's clutching at straws, isn't it?”

“Any straw is better than none.”

“Okay,” Tim agreed, hardly convinced.

“Good. You go play some video games, or whatever. I'll make the call. Maybe ask Abby for help, too?”

Tim shook his head. “It's bowling night.”

“Right. Bowling night. Well then, Autopsy Gremlin will have to do. ”

~ ~ ~

A mere five minutes later, Tony fount Tim mistreating some lettuce at the kitchen counter. Or at least the pebble-sized shreds on the cutting board were vaguely reminiscent of lettuce. 

“That looks delicious.”

Tim ignored him, reaching for a tomato.

“You plan to chop more?”

“I plan to make a damned salad.”

“I figured that much. Are you also aiming for some meat content?”

“Huh?”

Tony closed the distance between them, gently placing a hand on Tim's arm. “I'm afraid you might lose a finger if you keep swinging that knife so carelessly.”

“I'm not careless,” Tim grumbled, shaking his friend off. “Can't you find somewhere else to be?”

“What, while this is so entertaining?”

Tim glared at him, cutting into the tomato.

“Close one.”

“Listen. I need to blow off steam.” _Chop._ “This is kinda”— _chop_ —“disturbing.”

“Says the man who's murdering vegetables.”

“I'm not—” Tim stopped dead, realization flashing across his face. He huffed out a frustrated breath.

“Come on, buddy.” Tony took the knife and put it out of reach. “I understand you need a distraction, but I'm sure there is something less dangerous you could do.”

“Can't think of anything equally effective.”

Tony could (distraction was his forte), but like hell he'd let that one thought slip. “Shoot random guys online.”

“No, thanks. I feel much more like—I don't know what I feel like.” Grabbing a beer from the fridge, Tim leaned back against the countertop. “What did Jimmy say?”

“He can't make it tonight. I'm afraid we're on our own.” With plenty of time at hand for not-as-deadly activities. Tony swallowed, forcing his gaze away from the curve of Tim's cheekbones only to find it glued to the curve of his lips around the bottleneck.

“You gotta stop that. Seriously, McGee.”

“Stop what?”

“Being so . . .” Sexy.

Tim raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Okay, listen.” Tony brushed aside all inappropriate thinking. “We're investigators, ain't we? Damned good ones, even. So come on, let's investigate.”

~ ~ ~

They ruled out uncountable parameters. Each of Jethro's meals throughout the past week, places Tim had taken him, unusual environmental influences, even matters of household—“New laundry detergent, new anything, come on, McGee, anything?” with drama and resignation—until three hours and many a beer had passed. Tony declared the only reasonable explanation to be a virus escape, but stopped himself from saying “Umbrella” out loud. He had a feeling this wasn't funny at all.

With no ideas left, Tim looked so crushed that Tony could barely resist the urge to pull him into a hug. Only to comfort him, of course. The friction of Tim's knee against his own had nothing to do with it.

They finished their beers in frustrated silence. Even Jethro had been quiet for a while. The apartment felt like a tomb, the clock the only living being within its walls.

“Hey, what's that shampoo you use?”

“My—what?”

“Shampoo. You know, that soapy stuff for washing your hair.”

Confusion knitted Tim's eyebrows, then his features morphed into a smirk. “That's stupid, even for you.”

“What is?”

“That you're digging on me.”

“Huh. You wish,” Tony replied, his voice pitched higher by a few notes. He blushed, tried to shrug it off, although he knew his attempt at nonchalance failed miserably.

“Maybe,” Tim mumbled and— _Oh, McDevious_ —pressed his knee harder against Tony's.

“You're doing that on purpose, right?”

“What exactly?”

“That thing you do.”

“What would that be?”

“You know.”

“It's only the beer. I'm sorry.”

Tony mumbled agreement. He moved away, but strangely enough, Tim's hand found his knee and slowly slid up his thigh. Tony looked down, unsure whether to thank the gods of weird circumstances or curse the fate that brought him here tonight. “What's this, Probie?” he asked, voice cracking, eyes darting up to Tim's face.

“I shouldn't do that, right?”

Now, that must be a trick question. Tony blinked sheepishly, but not a sound came over his lips until the hand snuck into his lap, and that was it, there opened the floodgate; there went all decency, straight out of the window, _poof_. Growling deep in his throat, Tony pushed Tim onto his back, came to lie on top of him, the two men a mess of hands and limbs, with Tim laughing huskily while pulling Tony in for a kiss. 

It was a little too sloppy and a little too rushed, but it still felt good, so good, to let go. Grinding his hips against Tim's, Tony noticed with satisfaction that he wasn't the only one already affected. Impatience took the reins, causing him to bother only with as many buttons as absolutely necessary to slide his hand into Tim's pants and start to stroke him. It all happened so fast that there was no telling apart sounds and lips and hands and cocks. 

“Umm . . . Tony?”

Reluctant to acknowledge the messy reality of a high school-esque Oh No We Didn't, Tony buried his face in the crook of Tim's neck. “What?”

“You really should look.”

Tony propped himself up, and when he noticed Tim's horrified expression, he _felt_ his face pale even before he followed his gaze.

The bedroom door stood wide open. Under the pull of an entangled mess of dog leash, the edge of Tim's bed had caught with the doorframe. The leather, where it straightened, was strained almost to its breaking point. Deep-red claw marks shimmered obscenely on the wooden floor. Barely ten feet away from the couch, with only the coffee table to shield the men, Jethro lay in wait, baring his teeth and snarling so low that it was barely inside the spectrum of human hearing. What was left of his fur had turned into a greyish, slimy substance that slowly slid off of him in thick lumps. One of his ears was gone. The other looked strangely zigzagged. His eyes had changed as well, were now hollow and sunken back, fiery with infection.

“We're fucked,” Tim breathed out, flailing in a sudden rush of panic.

“Hey, stop it. Stop, McGee!” Tony fought to keep his balance, pinning Tim down with his full weight. “Look at me!”

Slowly, Tim's eyes focused.

“Okay, good. Now breathe.”

Jethro barked, a distorted, angry sound.

“Breathe and relax, Tim. We're out of his reach. Okay? We're safe.”

“For how long, Tony? I . . . I should have shot him while I could.”

“Hey.” Tony gently ran his fingertips along Tim's jaw. “Don't say that. We're good. We may be a little screwed, but the situation isn't exactly hopeless. Although I admit it's quite embarrassing.”

Tim took a deep breath, trying his best to see reason. “Okay,” he whispered, then cleared his throat, continuing a good deal firmer. “What can we do?”

“You're the smart one here, but I'll try. I guess you don't have your gun in reach?”

“Nope. In there.” He nodded towards the bedroom.

“Good. Well, bad. But okay. Plan B. Cellphone?”

“On the . . . on the table, I believe.”

“Is it safe to let you go?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, closing his eyes but failing to hide the glistening of tears.

Tony resisted the urge to kiss them away. Love confessions had to wait, he assumed. He sat up, careful not to slip into the dog's reach. The movement drove Jethro to his feet as well; he focused his dead eyes on the man.

“Easy, buddy.” Tony spoke overly clear. “I get it you're hungry. Maybe angry, too? Yeah, I'd be angry if all my hair was falling out, believe me.” He kept babbling, eyes on the dog, hands roaming his side of the coffee table for Tim's cell. Glancing down, he found it dangling from the edge—in Jethro's direction. Murphy's Law. All right.

“Tim?”

“What?”

“We need Plan C.”

“What about the phone?”

“Out of reach. But hey, I could get to the Kleenex.”

“Okay, cool.”

Tony turned his head slowly, almost unbelieving. “Are you kidding?”

“Cleaning up wouldn't hurt.” Tim's voice quivered with defense. “Bad enough being found half naked, don't you think?”

“If anyone finds us at all.”

While that was admittedly mean to say, Tony couldn't prevent the words. This evening kept turning into a bigger nightmare—minus making out, of course—and this was about as far as he could brace himself with all the frustration, the beer, the sex, and with Tim's anxiety worsening his own helplessness.

“Thanks.”

“I'm sorry,” Tony replied quickly, but it didn't come out sounding the least bit honest, although he tried. He hesitated, but then he reached for the box of tissues. Jethro jumped up barking when he came almost a bit too close, almost within reach. Tony recoiled, tripling over Tim's feet, landing hard on the couch.

A heartbeat later, the corners of Tim's lips started twitching until they curled into a grin, then a smirk. He started to snicker, hushed and tense at first, morphing into open laughter within another moment.

“Ha ha, funny,” Tony meant to snap, but it was too infectious, all of this too absurd, not to join in laughing. Nonetheless, he slapped the back of Tim's head, lightly, but you know, “Come on. Decency!”

Their amusement drove the dog wild. He jumped up again, claws scratching over the table, barks deafeningly loud. The strain on the leash grew as he kept pulling forward, seventy-five pounds of inflamed muscle and tendon, desperate to attack. The doorframe gave way with a nasty sound, allowing Jethro to close the distance for another few inches.

Their laughter died in their throats. They retreated as far away as possible, which was a joke, merely as much as Jethro had advanced.

“Okay,” Tim whispered, the word drowned in the rabid barking. “We need a plan. Now.”

Tony nodded, not even hearing what Tim had said. It didn't matter. Adrenaline rushed through their nervous systems at high speed, and there was not much need to communicate in words. It was like being out on in the field, where they worked perfectly together with only the help of body language and heightened awareness.

Going through what few possibilities they had, Tony dismissed one after the other. There wasn't much they could do but hope and wait for someone to find them, very likely a neighbor complaining about the noise. And when no one answered the door, Metro would show up sooner rather than later.

Tim's hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts. _I'll distract him. You get the gun._ At least that was what Tony believed to be the message. He shook his head.

“I know him,” Tim reminded him. “It may be desperate, but it's a chance.”

Again, Tony shook his head, but before he could object, Tim was already up and moving with that surprising nimbleness he sometimes owned.

Jethro snapped at Tim's arm, but he was faster, had expected it, and with a sideways twist, he escaped the sharp teeth by a hair's breadth. He crashed into the dog, knocking him off his feet. The two of them became a twisted mess of flesh and noise, but it wasn't until Tim called his name that Tony reacted. A silent prayer on his lips, he stumbled to his feet and rushed past them, jumping over the leash, crawling over the bed. He reached Tim's gun just as Jethro howled loud enough to attract all beasts in a two-mile-radius, and Tim, a heartbeat later, screamed with pain.

 _Don't, don't, don't,_ Tony's mind kept repeating frantically, his heart threatening to break through his ribcage. He spun back around, trying to aim, but he couldn't get a clear field of fire.

“McGee,” he called, but there was no helpful reaction. Tony watched with horror as Jethro's jaws snapped for Tim's throat.

“McGee, come on!”

And then, Tony got a fumbling grip of the leash, hauling the dog back at the same time as Tim succeeded to push him away. Jethro's claws left more marks on the floor as he fought to keep to his target. He attacked at random, sending saliva and slimy fur flying, and _bam!_ Tony hit him between the shoulders. The force of the shot at point-blank range hurled the dog to his side. He howled, now clearly in pain. Tony prepared for a second shot, aiming at his head—but it was over. A last jerk ran through Jethro's body, then he lay still.

For half a minute, there was nothing but the smell of burnt flesh and Tim's panting.

“Are you okay?” Tony asked, unable to avert his eyes from the mess of German shepherd.

Tim crawled backwards until the coffee table stopped him. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, smearing blood and some of that disgusting slime, unaware he was covered with it all over.

“McGee?”

“I don't know.”

“Did he bite you, for fuck's sake?”

“I—yes. Yes, he bit me. I'll be okay.”

Nothing, nothing would be okay. Tony resisted the urge to empty his whole magazine into the unmoving body at his feet. As satisfying as it might be, he refused to give in to anger and frustration.

“Yeah. You'll be okay,” he confirmed, smiling weakly at Tim. Both men's eyes read: _lie_.

~ ~ ~

There was no one to turn to but Ducky, and the ME, “Always glad to help, Tony,” promised to hurry, despite the nightly hour. Tim went to take a shower, while Tony figured it'd suffice for him to just get dressed properly again.

When Tim returned, he'd cleaned the bites on his arm and his torso as well as he could. Makeshift bandages of well-worn fabric and gaffer tape covered his wounds.

Tony grinned at that. So nerdy. So Tim. His heart clenched painfully.

Ducky's arrival spared them any forced, semi-romantic “You're Going To Live” conversation that they both would have known to be nonsense.

Tim retreated to the couch, his legs barely carrying him there, while Tony opened the door, positively surprised to find Ducky had brought Abby for reinforcement. She hugged him briefly, then got to Tim and curled up beside him. Tony watched them through the bookshelf. Tim wrapped his good arm around her as she nestled her head against his chest, and kissed her on the head. His gaze, though, searched Tony's. He looked away.

“Well, here we are,” Ducky said, patting Tony's shoulder. His eyes wandered through the apartment, briefly widening at seeing Jethro, or what was left of him. “I assume this explains the smell.”

“I guess so.”

“When you told me the quick version on the phone, I thought you were joking.”

“I wish. But it's just as serious.”

Sighing, Ducky advanced towards the cuddled up pair on the couch, but Tim shook his head infinitesimally. “Check him first,” he demanded, nodding in Jethro's direction.

“You gotta be kidding.” Tony, astounded, stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line.

This time, Tim was the one who couldn't bear the eye contact, but he repeated his request firmly, adding: “There's still hope. There must be.”

Ducky squatted down beside Jethro, feeling his pulse. “It is very weak. But it's there. You are right, Tim; there is hope.”

“There always is, Ducky,” Abby said, her voice choked. She lifted her head, gently brushing a strand of hair out of Tim's eyes, then she stood up. “I will take care of him. Tony, can you help me get him into the car?”

He nodded grimly, unwilling.

“I will call Mister Palmer into autopsy for an emergency case.”

“We called him already, hours ago. Said he couldn't come.”

“He will not deny me, though, Tony.”

~ ~ ~

Ducky did all he could for Tim, but he still strongly advised him to go to ER. Tim refused. All he wanted was to get some sleep. The pain, despite the injection Ducky had given him, pulsed through him.

Tony stayed by his side while everyone else involved met at headquarters to work on that case, aware that it was likely a race against time. No one could foresee what would become of Tim—or when. Voices were being raised to ask Gibbs and Ziva for help, but the discussion ended with the agreement that most of what needed to be done lay in Abby's powers now anyway, and they could be filled in in the morning.

The two field agents knew nothing of that. Indifferent about the mess, Tim slumped onto the bed exactly where it stood. He reached out for Tony, squeezing his hand lightly, and fell asleep the next moment, an almost peaceful look on his face.

Technically, Tony was prepared. The gun lay in his lap, safety catch off, waiting. Mentally, he couldn't come to terms with the possibility that Tim might never wake up as Tim again. He had seen too many movies, though, of course he had, to allow himself the slightest spark of hope. When you’re bitten by a zombie, you always turn into one yourself. Always. No exception.

It hurt. It would have hurt no less if they'd not gotten as close as they had that night. There was no denying the fact that Tim was dear to Tony, had always been, would never cease to be, no matter what.

 _Can't shoot a friend,_ Tony thought bitterly, impatiently wiping away a tear that ran down his cheek. He wasn't ready to feel defeated just yet. _There's always hope. There must be._

He squeezed Tim's hand so tightly as if to keep him alive by sheer force of touch.

~ ~ ~

When Tony cracked his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was the weight of the gun in his lap, and a ray of pale sunlight spying into the room. Then he realized he was alone, and he jumped to his feet, wide awake at once. Circling around, he scanned what of the place was within his sight, but found no sign of Tim. _Bad. This is bad._ He crawled over the bed, weapon readied, afraid of what he might find.

At first, he couldn't assign the sound of Tim's hushed voice to what it was, but then an immense flood of relief almost knocked him off his feet as he understood. Tim was okay. He was up and talking, coherently, and he was okay. _He's okay!_

Tony got a clear view of Tim's backside as he passed the shelves; he was on the phone, sounding exhausted, but beautifully like himself.

Tim turned around when he heard the footsteps, his lips curling into a warm smile as he fixed his gaze on Tony.

“Hold on a sec, Abs. He's here, you can tell him yourself.”

Tony took the phone from Tim, not without brushing their fingers together a little longer than necessary. Tim's skin felt cold.

“Abs? What you got?”

“Oh Tony! Tony, you won't believe this! I've been working on it all night long, and _just_ when I got the answer, Tim called me. I mean, come on, how much Gibbs is that?”

“Abs,” Tony growled. “I'm barely awake.”

“Sorry. Okay, you'll love this. You may have noticed Tim is fine, given the circumstances, so it was nothing infectious. In fact, what turned poor Jethro into a lump of yuck turned out to be some kind of high-tech surfactant. It was just recently cleared for general use, and is since found mostly in cleaners used for heavy industry—but very few common household cleaners added it to their formula as well.”

“Like the one Tim uses?”

“Like the one Tim uses,” Abby confirmed. “Jethro got poisoned, Tony. Some of the cleaner always remained on the floor, and every time he licked his paws, he swallowed some of it.”

“But why would the effect come so suddenly?”

“I don't know yet. I'm on it. Possibly a heavy allergic reaction triggered by crossing a limiting value of the surfactant in his circulation. Like I said, this stuff is fairly new. I can hardly believe I found out about it so quickly at all.”

“You were lucky. I mean, of course, you're simply good. Now, why did McGee not get poisoned?”

“The magic word is: gloves.”

Tony nodded. “Well done, Abs. Go get some sleep.”

“As if. I'm running high on caffeine, determined to solve the rest of that puzzle within the hour.”

“Okay, then,” Tony laughed. “Keep us posted.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Tony hung up, looking at Tim for a long time. He couldn't get past the fact that he stood right in front of him, still pale, still tired, but in a very ordinary way of alive. There were a million things he wanted to say, but what came out first was, “What about Jethro?”

“He's gonna look punk-rock for a while, but Jimmy got him patched up and Ducky started to clear the chemical out of his system. He's gonna be okay. Lacking an ear, but, you know. Okay.”

“And you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why, do I look wrong to you?”

Tony smiled, shaking his head. He hooked a finger into one of Tim's belt loops, pulling him the slightest bit closer. “You look perfect to me. Now more than ever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written the **Zombie Fest 2013**. Prompt [DiNozzo/any, distractions] by  silentflux.
> 
> I'm not sure it qualifies, but it was at least fun to write.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


End file.
